The Long Shot (Stephen Leather Thrillers) Page 43

  “Don Clutesi will be here shortly. He’s parking the car.” He picked up the three badges and handed one to Joker.

  Sanger stood up and went over to a closet. He took out three ballistic-protective vests, gave one to Joker and the other two to Howard. “I’d be happier if you all wear these,” he said, almost apologetically. “Just in case. I wouldn’t want you guys getting hurt.”

  Joker weighed his vest in his hands. It felt lighter than the body armour he’d worn in the SAS, and seemed more flexible.

  “It’s made of a special woven fabric, the trade name is Spectra,” said Sanger. “They’re supposed to be ten times stronger than steel but with a fraction of the weight. We get them from a company run by Ollie North. These are certified to stop a 9 mm 124 grain full metal jacket bullet at fourteen hundred feet per second.”

  Joker raised an eyebrow. “Impressive,” he said.

  “Yeah, they hardly show under a shirt, either,” said Sanger.

  “Do we get the dark glasses?” asked Joker.

  “I don’t follow,” said Sanger, confused.

  “The regulation shades. Do we get those, too?”

  Sanger grinned as he realised that his leg was being pulled. “No, Mr Cramer, those you’ll just have to buy yourself. Is there anything else you guys need?”

  “Binoculars would be handy,” said Joker.

  Howard nodded. “We can get those from our field office,” he said. He looked at Sanger. “The President’s helicopter touches down at six, right?”

  “Right,” agreed Sanger. “I’ll be at the ballpark an hour before Marine One lands. I’ll meet you there, if that’s okay with you.”

  “That’s fine,” said Howard.

  The intercom on Sanger’s desk buzzed and he depressed one of its buttons. A secretary told him that Don Clutesi was outside. Howard and Joker said their goodbyes and left Sanger working his way through the faxes.

  Mary Hennessy drove back to the motel where she found Carlos and Schoelen cleaning their rifles on sheets of polythene spread out over a bed.

  “How did it go?” Carlos asked.

  “She didn’t know about the broadcast until she saw it on television,” said Mary. “There’s some sort of power game going on between her and her boss.”

  “And because of that we were almost caught?” said Carlos. He picked up the barrel of Dina Rashid’s rifle and held it like a conductor about to conduct his orchestra. “If she’d known about the broadcast, we could have left earlier, and Cramer wouldn’t have killed Dina.”

  “That’s true,” admitted Mary. “But there was nothing she could do. There’s something else – Cramer is still alive.”

  Carlos stood up. “That’s impossible.” Behind him, Schoelen had finished cleaning his rifle.

  Mary shrugged. “He’s in Shock-trauma, and the FBI are talking to him.”

  Carlos paced up and down the room. “How much do they know?”

  “They know who we are, but they don’t know when or where we plan to make the hit. Their computer simulation isn’t working – because they can’t anticipate where Lovell is going to be. It’s throwing out all their calculations.”

  “So we go ahead?”

  Mary nodded. “Security is going to be tighter, but if we’re careful we can do it. Kelly has given me a full briefing on the security arrangements at the ballpark, so we have an edge.” She opened her handbag and handed Carlos a stack of papers.

  He flicked through them. “Okay,” he said. “If you’re sure.” He looked at her, his deep brown eyes boring deep into hers, leaving her in no doubt that the responsibility for failure would rest with her.

  Mary returned his gaze. “I’m sure,” she said, quietly.

  Carlos nodded slowly, then sat down and continued to clean the rifle. Lou Schoelen zipped up the sports bag which contained his Horstkamp sniping rifle and shouldered it. “I’ll be going,” he said. Schoelen went over to Carlos and shook his hand. “Good luck,” he said.

  Carlos looked at him with narrowed eyes. “Lou, this has nothing to do with luck, you know that.” He had an opened box of Ritz crackers by his side and he slotted several into his mouth, chewing them with relish.

  Schoelen smiled. “Yeah, I know, but I’d like luck on our side as well.” He waved goodbye to Mary and left.

  Mary opened a drawer in the bedside cupboard and took out a packet of hair dye. She went into the bathroom, leaving Carlos sitting on the bed. Carlos finished cleaning the rifle and reassembled it. Mary came out of the bathroom, her hair wrapped in a white towel. There were red streaks on the towel, and the few strands of hair that Carlos could see were a dark red. She looked at him, saying nothing. Carlos wondered how she would react when she realised how she’d been used and that the IRA were being set up to take the blame for the assassination of the President. He smiled. She smiled back. “Bathroom’s free,” she said.

  Carlos covered the rifle with the bedcover and went into the bathroom, carrying his wash bag. The sink had a red ring around it where it had been stained by the hair dye. He took out a can of menthol shaving cream and he spread some over his face, lathering it into his stubble and moustache. He used a disposable razor to remove the moustache, and then washed the remaining lather off his face. He looked very different without the facial hair, and by combing his hair in a slightly different fashion his appearance was totally altered. In the bedroom, Mary’s hairdryer kicked into life as Carlos stepped into the shower and soaped himself clean. By the time he showered and towelled himself dry, Mary was sitting in front of the dressing table putting the finishing touches to her hair. “Red suits you,” he said.

  She smiled up at him. “Ilich, you said blonde suited me.”

  “And it did, Mary. It did.”

  He kept a towel wrapped around his broad waist as he picked up a dark pinstripe suit and a brand new white shirt, still in its polythene wrapper. He carried them into the bathroom and changed. “What do you think?” he asked Mary as he walked back into the bedroom.

  She looked at him in the mirror. “Good. Every inch a businessman – all you need is a tie. And shoes, of course.”

  Carlos selected a red and blue striped tie. “Are you all right, Mary?” he asked as he fastened the tie. “You seem a little apprehensive.”

  “When I’m focused on what we’re doing it doesn’t worry me, but sometimes I relax and look at it from a distance, and it scares me,” she said as she combed her hair.

  “Fear is good, it keeps you on your toes,” said Carlos. “It is those without fear who make mistakes and get caught.”

  Mary turned and nodded. “You’re right, of course,” she said. “What about you, Ilich? Are you scared?”

  Carlos shrugged. “A little,” he said. He grinned. “But if you ever tell anyone that I told you so, I’ll have to kill you.” He patted her on her shoulder to show that he was joking. “We must go soon.”

  “I know,” she said. “You have the keys to the plane?”

  Carlos laughed. “You sound like a doting wife, Mary. Is that how you treated your husband?”

  “I suppose it was,” she said, standing up and checking her outfit in the mirror. She had changed into a yellow wrap-around skirt, a white shirt and white pumps.

  Carlos sat down on the edge of his bed and broke the rifle down into its main component parts, then wrapped them in a motel towel and placed them in a black leather briefcase. “I’m really impressed with the way you handled Bailey,” he said. “He’s a changed man. Now he actually seems to be looking forward to it. And did you notice how he’s completely lost his stammer?”

  Mary shuddered as she picked up her suitcase. “Yes, I noticed. Are you ready?”

  Carlos slipped the box of crackers under his arm and picked up his briefcase and suitcase. “Oh yes,” he said. “More than ready.”

  The FBI’s Baltimore field office was in a cream-coloured brick building on an industrial park next to Route 1–695. Cole Howard showed Joker into a small interview room, bare-w
alled with a couple of chairs and a teak veneer table. “Do you want a coffee or something?” asked Howard. He was carrying the bullet-proof vests in a nylon bag and he dropped them on the floor next to the table.

  “Yeah, coffee would be good,” answered Joker, sitting down gingerly. “I don’t suppose you’ve got any Famous Grouse, have you?”

  “Famous Grouse?” repeated Howard, his brow furrowed.

  “It’s a brand of whisky,” said Joker. He moved his shoulder as if it pained him.

  “I can get you some painkillers,” said Howard. “Aspirin or Tylenol or something.”

  “That’ll have to do, I suppose,” said Joker. “How about a beer to wash them down?” He slouched back in the chair, his eyes closed. Howard stood and watched him for a few seconds, and then went out of the room to where the vending machines were. He realised he’d forgotten to ask how Joker took his coffee, but figured that he could probably do with the sugar, so he chose it sweet and white. When he got back to the room, Joker was still resting, his eyes firmly closed. Howard put the styrofoam cup on the table.

  Don Clutesi came into the room carrying three Motorola two-way radios and three pairs of high-power binoculars. “You wouldn’t believe the paperwork I had to go through to borrow these,” he complained. “You’d think I was planning to steal them.” He put them on the table next to the coffee.

  “Have you got any painkillers?” asked Howard.

  “Headache?” asked Clutesi.

  Howard shook his head. “They’re for Cramer.”

  Clutesi went through his pockets and came up with a small foil packet of four tablets. He tossed them down on the table. “Is he going to be up to it?” he asked.

  “I’ll be fine,” said Joker, opening his eyes. He grunted as he leaned forward and took the packet of painkillers. He broke open the foil pouch, swallowed a couple of the white tablets, and washed them down with the coffee, a look of disgust on his face.

  Howard picked up one of the two-way radios and showed Joker how it worked. “This will be operating on the Secret Service frequency, so don’t use it unless you have something urgent to say,” explained Howard. “You’ll be able to listen in to what they’re saying, too.”

  Joker nodded. He put the earpiece in his ear and slotted in its jackplug. “I’ve used similar equipment,” he said.

  Howard slipped off his jacket. He was wearing a leather holster which he’d clipped to the back of his belt and he removed it, placing it on the table.

  “Colt 45?” said Joker. “I thought you guys were switching over to Glocks or Berettas.”

  Howard took off his tie and unbuttoned his shirt. “I prefer the Colt. It’s reliable, it does the job.”

  “It’s heavy to carry around all day, though,” said Joker. He gestured at the gun. “Do you mind?”

  Howard looked at Clutesi and then back to Joker. “Go ahead,” he said. He dropped his shirt on the table and picked up one of the vests. Clutesi helped him fit it while Joker took the magazine out of the gun and checked the mechanism. Joker looked down the sights and weighed the gun in his hands as Howard put his shirt back on and retied his necktie. It was a good fit, and once he’d put his jacket on the vest was barely visible.

  “Have you used it?” asked Joker.

  “Oh sure, we have regular training with firearms,” said Howard.

  Joker shook his head. “No, I meant have you really used it?”

  “Sure.”

  “Fired it? At someone?”

  “Well, yes, I’ve fired it, but only warning shots. If you use a weapon properly, you don’t have to fire it. The threat should be enough.”

  Joker laughed bitterly. “Is that what they teach you at the Academy? For fuck’s sake, Cole, a gun has one purpose and one purpose only. To kill people. Anything else is bullshit.”

  “So how many people have you killed, Cramer?” asked Clutesi scornfully.

  Joker turned around slowly until he was facing Clutesi. The Colt was still in Joker’s hand, and though Clutesi could see that the clip was out, he still paled. Joker looked at the FBI agent, his deep-set eyes like impenetrable black holes either side of his nose. “A few,” said Joker coldly. “Quite a few.” For a moment it appeared that Joker was going to say something else but then he shook his head, put the Colt back in the holster and handed it to Howard. Joker adjusted his jacket and scowled at Clutesi. “Are you sure this is the only jacket you can get?” he asked.

  “I’m afraid so,” said Clutesi, smiling brightly. Howard had the feeling that his fellow FBI agent was getting his revenge for the urine-filled bottle. “It’s not so bad. It goes well with the jeans.”

  “How’s your shoulder?” Howard asked.

  “It’s painful, but I’ll be okay,” said Joker.

  “The vest fits okay?”

  “Sure, it’ll be fine so long as they don’t go for a head shot,” Joker replied, pocketing his two-way radio.

  “Okay, let’s get down to the ballpark,” said Howard.

  “What’s the chance of us stopping for a drink on the way?” asked Joker. He saw the look of distaste on Howard’s face. “For medicinal reasons,” he added.

  Lou Schoelen stepped out of the elevator on the fourth floor of the office building and looked up and down the corridor. The office he was looking for was three doors down on the left. A sign on the wall next to the dark blue door read ‘Quality Goods Import-Export Inc’. Schoelen took out the key Mary Hennessy had given him and unlocked the door.

  The office interior was neat and bland: cream painted walls, cheap wooden furniture and metal filing cabinets, an IBM clone computer sitting on a desk. According to Mary, the office had been leased some six months earlier by one of her contacts in New York. The man made regular trips down to Baltimore, keeping up the appearance that the office was used, paying the utility bills and collecting any junk mail that arrived. The office had been selected on the basis of two main criteria: it overlooked the ballpark and had a window which could be opened. In the days of central air-conditioning, the latter had proven remarkably difficult to find.

  Schoelen put his sports bag on one of the desks. He looked around the dummy office. It was impressive, and any casual observer would assume that it was a functioning business, with faxes and telexes in two wire baskets, a wall planner covered with marks and scribbled notes, and various well-thumbed directories in an old bookcase. He went over to the window and looked down at the traffic below. The car parks surrounding the stadium were empty: there was more than an hour before the game was due to begin. The stadium was in the shape of a horseshoe, the open end facing towards Schoelen and the tower blocks of the city centre. Through the gap he could see the bright green playing surface, and the sandy mound and diamond. At one side of the horseshoe was an advertisement for Coca-Cola, depicting a bottle of the soft drink which was several storeys high. Schoelen unlatched the window and slid it to the right. Immediately the throb of traffic and a distant ambulance siren flooded into the office, along with a wave of hot, moist air. He pushed open the window as far as it would go and checked the view of the pitcher’s mound in the distance. Perfect. He closed the window, sat down at the desk and unzipped the sports bag, whistling softly to himself.

  Rich Lovell drove the rental car to the airfield, while Matthew Bailey sat in the passenger seat, the peak of his orange and black baseball cap pulled low over his face. Bailey had a map of the area spread out over his lap. The airfield where he was due to meet Patrick Farrell wasn’t the one where Farrell Aviation was based; it was a smaller, less accessible field to the north-east of the city, across the Bay Bridge, where the company owned a large hangar and a helicopter training centre. “So tell me, Matthew, how much are you getting for this job?” asked Lovell.

  Bailey looked up from the map, his upper lip curled back in a sneer. “Money?” he said. “I’m not getting paid for this.”

  Lovell raised his eyebrows. “Not a cent?”

  “Nothing,” said Bailey. “I’m not a hired
hand. I’m doing this because I believe in it. Because what we do will make a difference.”

  “A difference to what?” asked Lovell.

  Bailey frowned. “You want the next turn-off,” he said.

  “You didn’t answer the question,” said Lovell. “How does killing this man make a difference? He’ll just be replaced, right?”

  “It shows that we’re serious,” said Bailey. “It shows the whole world that there isn’t anyone we can’t reach. The Brits will have to listen to us. They’ll have to give us our country back.” He looked over at the American. “How much are you getting?”

  Lovell laughed. “A lot,” he said. “Enough to never have to do it again. Enough to never have to do anything again.”

  “Early retirement?”

  “Sort of,” said Lovell. “But I won’t retire.”

  “Why not?”

  Lovell glanced at Bailey. “Because I enjoy it. I enjoy the anticipation, the planning, the pulling of the trigger. It’s what I do, and I do it well.”

  “That’s the road,” said Bailey, pointing ahead. “Six miles down there and then we hang a left.”

  Lovell nodded. “What about Mary? What drives her?”

  “The Brits murdered her husband, and the Protestants killed her brother. And she believes in a united Ireland. That’s something you’ll never understand. You don’t know what it’s like to be a second-class citizen in your own country. Being a Catholic in Northern Ireland is like being . . .” He struggled for an analogy. “I don’t know, I guess the closest comparison would be to being black in the South, with the whites always putting you down and pushing you around.”

  “And killing this one man will change all that?” He beat a drum tattoo on the steering wheel.